


Circumstances

by malchanceux



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:52:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese meets "Charlie Burton" long before he saves him from the Russian Mafia; before he meets Mr. Finch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> This will most likely be ongoing... We'll see where my Muse takes me.

He was tired. Not the over worked, lack of sleep kind of tired—but the bone deep, soul deep weariness that came along with doing so much, working so hard, never having a moments rest and then just… Having nothing. Nothing to do, no goals to reach, nobody to reach out to, nobody to relate with, no one who'd understand the kind of evils he'd committed over the past years.

Absolutely nothing.

He'd considered freelancing when he'd come 'home'. Sell his soul to the highest bidder, but… For what? To help monsters kill innocence for nothing more then money, titles, drugs, turf? Why? At least when he'd been under Big Brothers thumb, he could tell himself it was for a cause—for his country. To keep freedom safe.

No matter how empty the comfort, it was still just that: a comfort.

And in many cases what he did—the people he killed—had saved lives, had protected what America stands for, and all the people who live within it's red, white, and blue glory. He'd been given a goal, a reason to keep going—a purpose to kill, steal, torture—the only things it seemed he was good at.

He closed his eyes, listened absently to the sound of metal against metal—of the train speeding to its next station. The subtle rocking was oddly soothing. That's why he road the subway in the first place. Drinking was fine when you wanted to forget how fucked you were, forget which way was up and which way was down. But for a moment of true peace? Well, he'd had to resort to strange measures to find that.

Laughing broke through his thought numbed mind—harsh, sarcastic, cruel—along with the the train door being opened and slammed shut.

"Hey, man, what'chu gonna do, huh? Where'd you get that, a cereal box?"

He opened his eyes, scanned the train car.

Seven people, six standing, three confirmed armed—three pending.

The least threatening—a white male, early forties, late thirties, balding, glasses—sat a few seats down from him, on the opposite side of the car. The rest were huddled near the door—two groups; one of four and one of two.

The group of four seemed to be causing the commotion; riling up the other two men. They flashed their guns, sent the group of two out of the car with their tails between their legs.

This wasn't going to end well.

"Every little punk is carrying, Anton," nice jeans, nice shirt, clean, and a real gold chain—he seemed the oldest out of the four, and the least trigger happy. "That's why your father wanted us to take the car home."

"Relax, T," the leader of the group. Or, that wasn't quite right. The other three were more like body guards—this one was the spoiled brat with an important daddy. "We'll be pickin' up some more hardware sometime next week—restore a little order."

The kid—Anton—looked over at the older man, the one with the glasses, and smirked.

"Besides, when we take the car," he said, walking forward—all self assured bravado that screamed of amateur; of never seeing a real fight. "We miss the chance to meet new friends."

Anton plopped down in the seat next to the older man, who grimaced, like he knew it was gonna happen, like he'd been arguing with himself on whether or not to get up and leave the car when the boys first filed in.

"Naw, not new friends… I know you from somewhere, don't I?" Anton leaned forward into the man's space, grinning like a loon. "Yeah, I know! You taught at my old school, didn't you? Mister Burton, wasn't it? You failed me, ya know."

Anton looked up at his friends, smirking with a devious gleam in his eyes.

"Remember that, T? Dad was real pissed…"

"Yeah, I remember." There's less of a playful edge in T's voice. He doesn't want to fight, it's obvious in everything he does—from the words he chooses to the way he stands.

"I don't want any trouble." Burton mumbles, not like it'll mean much to Anton. But he seems to understand that—it was just an empty gesture. The teacher seems resigned to the beating that is sure to ensue.

"Ha!" Anton laughed, standing. "Should have thought of that before ya failed me."

"That's enough." It's out of Reese's mouth before he realizes he'd been going to say it.

"Excuse me?" Anton, indignant, turns his attention on him. "You got something to say there, bum?"

He stands, doesn't take his full height; doesn't try to intimidate. He knows what he looks like—doesn't really care. He can still fight with a beard and reeking of alcohol—layered in cheap sweaters and jackets. Looking pretty is for operatives that need to be able to find an 'in' at any time, be flexible with their cover.

He's not an operative anymore.

"I don't want to have to hurt you, so turn around and go back to the car you came from." He knows the threat won't help—a fight is unavoidable now—but it's the gesture that counts. At least, to him it does.

"Hohoho," Anton feigns shock, fear. "Oh please, sir. Don't hurt me with your stench."

One of the other boys step around T, clenches his fist and pulls his arm back to throw a blow.

He doesn't get a chance to even try.

It's so easy it's sad. A few well placed hits and a couple twisted arms and they're all down for the count. Anton with a broken nose, T with a sprained wrist and a black eye, the other two: a broken arm, a fractured collar bone.

So much for their guns…

They all stagger to their feet, stumble over each other through the door back to the train car they came from. Reese isn't 100% sure whether or not they'll get the cops involved, but he sits back down in his spot anyway—not like it really matters if he's arrested or not. No city cell could hold him if he was truly determined to get out.

"Thank you," he looks up, at the man, the teacher—Burton—who gets up from his place across the car and instead sits a polite seat away from Reese. "That was… impressive."

He's not sure what to say to that, so he opts for silence.

"I've never seen anyone fight like that before. Are you from the military?"

Reese regards the older man—his kind smile and soft features. He seems so fragile, so defenseless. He's probably been on the wrong side of fight he didn't start dozens of times—but yet he still seems so… genuine.

"You could say that."

Burton nods like he understands—not like he possibly could. He holds a gloved hand out. "I'm Charlie, by the way. Charlie Burton."

Reese takes the offered hand, hesitantly, but his shake is firm. "John."

"Well, John, thank you again. If there's anything I could do to repay you—"

"That's fine, Charlie," the train stops, and Reese decides that today, it's his stop. He gets up, walks toward the station platform. "Perhaps I'll see you around."

"Wait," Charlie stands, like he'll reach out and physically stop Reese if he has to. "I don't mean to brag, but I make a killer meatloaf. But I always seem to make too much…"

Reese's lips twitch up for a moment, and he turns to face the kindly school teacher fully. It's naive to invite a complete stranger to dinner—especially when said strange smells like he hasn't showered in years, and looks like a desperate homeless man. He damn well is—Burton must realize this, and yet.

Reese walks back to his seat, and the train doors close.


End file.
